Deal With the Devil
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: "Sweetheart, if I wanted you dead, you would be." Ice cubes clink together. "So. I tell you what I know, you find the person responsible and...do what you need to do. You make this happen, I owe you a favour. Deal?" Hiatus due to family insanity, BUT I FINISH WHAT I START, so check back.
1. Prolgue

AN: I don't know. I quit asking a while ago. All you really need to know is that Angelique flirts with absolutely everyone, not because she's interested, but because it throws people off. Awkwardness ensues.

Matt is not being a cooperative cupcake. Foggy, on the other hand, is a ray of sunshine and as such will not be harmed. See, Matt? I wouldn't have to hurt you if you were nice.

Updates Fridays.

* * *

Entering the room from the wet, windy rooftop outside is like walking into a furnace. The place smells like incense-lavender-and vinyl records and vodka. Two thugs are outside, but they don't know he's here. Their employer, on the other hand...

"Ohh, I'd hoped you'd come. Sit down, you're soaked. Drink? Candy?" He declines. They could be drugged. Probably are. "Your loss." There's the sound of vodka being poured into a glass of ice. "Sit down, dear, dry out."

"I'm good."

 _Clack, clack, clack, clack._ Heels on hardwood, muffled by a rug.

"Have you come to arrest me, or to help me?"

He'd like to arrest her-or, rather, drop her off at the station-but there's no evidence.

"Child prostitution?"

"Mm." There's knowledge in that voice, and exhaustion. "I can't find the source. But you...the law hates you already, you can do what you need to."

"You could be setting me up."

"Sweetheart, if I wanted you dead, you would be." Ice cubes clink together. "So. I tell you what I know, you find the person responsible and...do what you need to. You make this happen, I owe you a favour. Deal?"

He doesn't like it. He _really_ doesn't like it. But he likes _This_ a whole lot less.

"Deal. But I don't need a favour."

"Excellent." Angelique du Maurier reclines back on her chaise lounge-velvet, antique wood, way too many zeroes on that price tag-and takes a long drink. "Sit down, I insist. This could take a while."

He hates moving away from the window, hates being here at all. But there's not much he can do about it now.

He sits down, one ear tuned on the thugs in the hall. She tosses a curl-Foggy wouldn't shut up about what she looked like-over her shoulder and moves a bit.

"Cigarette?" He shakes his head, hears a lighter being flicked. "Well, well. The _Daredevil_ , in my private lounge. Never thought I'd see the day."

"What do you know."

"So impatient. Tsk, tsk." She moves again, silk robe rubbing against velvet chaise. "Ah-ah! Settle down, or I call my dogs and you don't find out anything."

He settles down with an effort, because she's willing to talk and that might change if he has to threaten to fling her over the balcony.

Also, it really is warm in here and this armchair is very comfortable. Soft. Squishy. Like a hug.

"Good boy." He hates that tone. It's the tone of someone who always gets what they want, who's never been told no. "Where to begin..."

"Names, maybe."

"If I had names, I wouldn't need you." She's annoyed, not used to anyone backtalking her. Heh. This might be fun. "All I know for certain, is that they disappear in the park between nine and midnight. Everything else is rumour, ghost stories."

"Mm."

"Most of them, as far as I know, are being shipped out of the country. I don't know when, I don't know how, just that it happens. But one of them got away. Scrappy little thing-clawed the guy's eye out of its socket. I have his address."

"He didn't go to the police?"

"Don't be so niave. If they cared, I wouldn't be talking to you. This is for you." There's the sound of paper rustling and he reaches out, feels thick cardstock in his fingers. "I don't care what you do. Bring them here, drop them at the station with enough evidence to keep them locked up, whatever. But I don't want them back on the streets. Do I make myself clear?"

"They won't be out for much longer." He stands up and stows the card in his pocket for later. "I'll be in touch." Maybe. If he really _has_ to.

"Oh, should I invest in a Batsignal? Maybe something with..." She's looking him over. "Ohh, a pitchfork? Would that suit?"

"No."

"So grouchy." That's a pout, he's had enough practice hearing those from Foggy. "At least the lawyers _tried_ to be charming...sweetheart, you need a rest. A little TLC."

"No."

She laughs at him and stands up.

"If you ever change your mind...rest assured, I won't leave you to the whims of a rookie. I'll take care of you myself."

This is one of those conversations he'll take with him to the grave. He's been having a lot of those lately.

"I'm good."

"Shall I turn around, let you disappear? Or will you take the door?"

He doesn't even bother answering that one, just ducks out the window and disappears into the rain.


	2. Chapter 1

AN: 90% of my inner commentary while watching this show: 'Matty, dear, ABSOLUTELY NOT'. Other 10%: 'Foggy, take him home before he hurts himself. Again.'

* * *

 **Eight Hours Earlier...**

"No, really, you can't go-"

The door swings open and two big, kinda scary-looking creatures enter. Foggy's pretty sure they're men, but really...yeah. Big-big. And he's pretty sure that one of them is carrying nunchucks on his belt.

"Down, boys." A woman comes in, all long leather coat and gloves and _money_ , black curls framing her face and making her look like a china doll, with those big blue eyes and long lashes. She looks _familiar_. Where has he...oh. Oh, shit.

"Uh, Matt, we have a mob boss in our office."

"Buisness woman, darling." Big One draws the nunchucks and Foggy prepars to duck for cover when he...makes them into a coat hanger. The woman removes her coat and hangs it, along with her scarf. The gloves she just hands to him. Somehow, being used as a coat rack does not make Big One look any less...murdery. "Misters Nelson and Murdock, I presume. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"Did you have an appointment?"

 _Shut your goddamn mouth, Matt, what part of MOB BOSS did you not understand?_

"I don't need one. I won't be long." She sits down and just...looks at them. Foggy doesn't think he likes it. Scratch that-he knows he doesn't like it. "A little bird told me that you two can get me in touch with our very own neighborhood devil."

"Sorry, can't help you."

 _Matt. SHUT. UP._

"I thought lawyers were good at lying."

"I'm telling the truth."

 _Do you even know what self-preservation is?*_

"Aw, you're cute." She leans forward, arms resting on Matt's desk. "Take your glasses off for me, please?"

"Why."

"I'm curious to see if the curtains match the windows."

Foggy swallows a snicker. Is this serious? Yes. Is it bad? Probably. But if they live, he's never letting Matt forget this. _Never_.

"Um-"

"Don't make me take them off."

Matt shrugs and takes his glasses off, sets them on his desk. Angelique du Maurier grins broadly and reaches one manicured finger over to lift his chin and guide his face towards her. O-kay, that's not...creepy, or anything. He's about to step in, bodygaurds be damned, when she pats his cheek and draws her hand back to her lap.

"Oh, I _like_ that. If you ever need a new job, you come straight to me. Work's minimal-sit by my desk and look nice."

"He does that already."

She turns that grin on him with a delighted, almost girlish laugh.

"You can come too, sit on the other side and make little quips. Sound fun?"

"I'm good."

"Shame." she sighs, settling back in the chair. "Now, don't be coy. I need to speak with your roof-jumping friend about a little matter of child trafficking."

"What do you mean."

"Exactly that. It's one thing when people want to go horseback riding**, but I do draw the line at... _that_."

"Tell the police."

"It's complicated. If you...were to see him, send him by. I'm sure he knows my address." She rises, snaps her fingers. Big One steps over and helps her on with her coat. "Think about it. For the sake of the children."

Before Foggy can prepare himself, she's leaned over, gripped his tie, and tugged him forward into a kiss. Never mind, they are _never_ speaking of this again.

"Not bad. You can always tell how good a man is if you catch him by surprise." She winks at him and saunters towards the door. "Come along, boys, we're leaving."

Once he hears the door close, he turns to Matt and says, "Help me."

"What?"

"You know _what_ , I know you heard that, you hear everything!"

"I must have tuned it out."

His best friend is a real asshole sometimes, he really is.

"Come on, you know!"

"Really, Foggy, I have no idea what you're talking about. A...questionable...businesswoman came in with a ridiculous proposal and then left. It wasn't that bad."

"She. Kissed. Me. The Angel of Death _kissed_ me, does that mean I'm marked for a mugging gone wrong or something? Should I skip town-stop _smirking_ , you _jerk_ , this is a catastrophe!"

Matt laughs at him-of course he laughs at him, _he's_ not the one that got kissed-and gets up to pour himself a cup of tea.

"I'm pretty sure she was just messing with you."

"If I turn up dead in the river, I'll haunt you. I'll haunt you so bad, you'll never sleep again."

"Sure, sure. I'll keep that in mind." He sits back down. "Think I should go?"

"Dude, it's probably a trap."

"Yeah, maybe. She was telling the truth, though, at least partly."

Foggy knows that tone. That's the tone of 'I'm going anyway'. Because if there's anything that draws the Daredevil into a trap, it's imperiled children.

"Just...be careful. Don't do anything stupid."

"Who, me?"

One day, hopefully soon, they're going sit down and have a little talk about this thing called 'denial'.

"Yes. You. Because you picked a fight with knife-wielding maniacs-"

"I did not _pick a fight_ , I _rescued_ a woman from an alley-"

"-needed stitches, went back out an hour later to pick another fight-"

"-I don't _pick fights_ , I _help_ people-"

"-ripped the stitches, and nearly bled out on my carpet. Again."

Matt pauses mid-sip and gives him a hurt look.

"You make it sound so much worse than it was."

"What part of 'nearly bled out on my carpet' did you not understand?"

"Head wounds always bleed..."

"This was a chest wound."

"Erm. Yes. But that was an off night, you know that-"

"She's made her money screwing over more self-protective people than you. Don't do anything stupid."

"Yes, Mother."

Foggy flips him off and knows full well that he knows that, if nothing else because what else is Foggy supposed to _do_ in this situation?

"I just flipped you off, by the way."

"I love you too, darling."

And Foggy really, really hopes that Angelique du Maurier doesn't kill him, because he wants to be the one to do it, as punishment for giving him premature grey hairs.

* * *

*No. Clearly. Because people who are rescued from a dumpster and stitched back together on a stranger's sofa and then try to kick ass DESPITE NEARLY DYING LIKE HALF AN HOUR AGO aren't into that. Dumbass.

**Heroin. I don't think this is actually a term, but maybe it'll catch on.


	3. Chapter 2

**Guest** -Aww, thanks! I don't think she will, if only because Matt's like 'NO MURDER' and Angelique's like, 'is it murder if they were tripped onto the subway tracks? 'cuz I think that's an accident'.

* * *

It's cold. Wet. Windy. Same as it has been for the last three nights.

He talked to the boy. Well, sort of. Once the kid was done freaking out about the ninja at his window. He felt a bit bad about that one, but it was an unavoidable misfortune.

The boy-Michael Wilson, aged seven and three quarters-had been cooperative, once he was assured that he was not going to be kidnapped again. Still hadn't let go of the baseball bat, but he wouldn't begrudge him that.

He knew more than du Maurier had, a lot more. He had been at the park-he'd snuck out because there'd been a stray dog he'd been feeding-when a man and a woman had set upon him, chased him a little ways through the park, and grabbed him and flung him into the back of a white van.

Always the white van. Always.

The woman had smelled like his mom's perfume. He could smell that from here-a cheap, popular brand sold in Sharpe's Department Store. She'd been built like a linebacker, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. The man, by contrast, had been thin, and he'd worn glasses. There had been a scar under one eye.

Good kid.

Good kid or not, he can't track anybody in this weather, perfume or not. That, and 'built like a linebacker' isn't exactly helpful. But it's not like he's got anything else to go on.

He should, he supposes, give du Maurier the descriptions, have her put the word out, but the less he has to deal with her, the better.

 _Radio_

 _Talk show_

 _Argument over money_

 _"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"_

He zeroes in on that one-two blocks south, alleyway, what is it with people and alleyways at night, come _on_.*

It's nothing serious-attempted mugging, looks like. It's just one guy, shaky-fingered and liable to pull the trigger by accident. He goes down easy. For once.

"Oh, oh god-"

"Go home."

"Jesus-"

"Maybe stay out of the alleyway next time."

The man stops his blubbering long enough to say, in the most injured tone imaginable, "I was yanked in."

"Don't walk by them, then."

And with that parting remark, he disappears thanks to a convenient fire escape-smells like rust, it's breaking so many health and safety violations.

His hand is throbbing a little-he'll put some ice on it when he gets home. It's more of an annoyance than anything, but still.

 _Opera radio_

 _They need new brakes_

 _They're having a threesome...didn't need to know that_

 _Heartbeats-he's getting over a heart attack, he should be careful_

 _Just cut herself with a kitchen knife, that's gotta hurt_

 _Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena, hey Macarena!-no more Kareoke, man, you sound like a dying goat._

He sighs, tunes out Bad Kareoke and Threesome and everyone else-but especially those two-and heads to the park, cursing the weather. Wind throws him off, distorts everything.

There's no one out in this that doesn't have to be, and no one in the park-not even a desperate junkie. All the same, he circles the place twice before finding a convenient tree-all splinters and misery-to lurk in.

This. Absolutely. Bites.

* * *

A few blocks south, in the first building to be rebuilt after the alien invasion-honestly, an _invasion_ , and in _those_ horns? Really?-Angelique stands by the kitchen counter, waiting for her kettle to go off. Honestly. Horns, of all the ridiculous...

Although, she'd seen the footage of him without them. Not bad. She might have appreciated him more if he hadn't been the cause of an alien fish through her lounge window at three in the afternoon, the asshole.

What is taking the kettle so long-what was that?

It screams just as the door open and she sighs, picks it up with a towel. Her staff always knocks. She's drilled that into them-not knocking is for uncultured swine, _you_ have the bare minimum of manners.

"Don't move." There's the familiar sound of a gun being drawn. "Don't move."

"Just a moment, dear." _Glig-glig-glig_ , goes the water into her mug. "I've waited ten minutes for this damn kettle."

He comes closer and she clips the spout shut, makes as though to put it down-

-and swings, **hard** , catching him upside the head. He goes down with a yell of surprise and she proceeds to pour the remaining water onto his face. Oh, look at that, instant blister! Fascinating. Good to know for later.

"That wasn't very polite." she tells him, kicking the gun away and setting the kettle down. "If you wanted to speak to me, you could have made an appointment...come in!" The door flies open and her own dear...helpers...enter, guns drawn. "See what happens when you don't knock, boys?"

"Mademoiselle?"

"Never mind...take him away, ready him. I'll join you shortly."

She's certainly not about to interrogate her houseguest in a dressing gown. That's just tacky.

They prepared him well-tied him firmly to a chair and made sure his hands were easy to get to.

"Good boys." She adjusts Mama's ring a bit and steps forward. "Who sent you?"

"Fuck off."

Hm. Someone needs a lesson in manners.

She backhands him across the face, the diamond ring gouging in deep and dragging the skin towards his mouth. Red, blistered skin peels off and falls to the floor.

"Who sent you?"

"Go to hell."

She backhands him again, giving him a matching gouge on the other cheek.

"Answer me."

"Bite me."

"Roger, fetch my meat tenderizer, there's a good boy."

The man in the chair spits at her feet and she plucks a handkerchief from the side table and begins removing blood and flesh from her ring.

"This is very inconvenient, you know." she informs him. "I was about to go to bed, and now you're keeping me from my beauty sleep." Roger returns with her meat tenderizer-a heavy, wooden thing with blunt spikes that really does work wonders for steaks. "Such a sweet thing. Thank you, dear." She rewards him with a peck on the cheek. "Take care of him, would you?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

He steps forward, looks their guest up and down, and smashes the tenderizer into his left kneecap.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

An hour later, she knows his name-John Fleek-his employer-small timer Alexander Welsh-and his motive-assassination. Moron. She'll deal with Welsh in the morning, but for now, she's got a crying man in her basement and she would like him to shut-up, _please_.

She waves Roger off and comes forward, wraps her arms around Fleek's neck and lowers herself into his lap. Bones shift and he screams.

"Shh, shh." She pets his cheek. "It's okay. It's going to be over soon."

"Ohh..."

"Do you know what they call me?" she continues, motioning for David to bring her that lovely curved knife that rather looks like a sickle. "Do you, John?"

"Mm..."

"Say it." He moans and his head falls back. She frowns. "Say it!"

"Angel...of death...god..."

"That's right." She shifts, provoking another shriek of agony. God bless earplugs. They don't drown out everything, but they do enough. "And do you know why?"

"No..."

"Because I grant you mercy." Ah, knife. Lovely. "Now...open wide, dear..."

"Please-!"

She rams the knife into his mouth and _pushes_ , the curved blade meeting resistence before going upwards and pushing forward. There's a squelch, and a glimmer of silver emerges from his left eye.

There. All done.

"Get rid of him. And clean this off." She thrusts the knife at David. "Good night, gentlemen. Pleasant dreams."

"Rêves agréables, Mademoiselle."

She walks away, intending to take a nice bubble bath. Maybe she'll ask Daphne to come and give her a massage...that girl is a bit of a twit, but those hands of hers are _magic_.

Shame she has to deal with Welsh tomorrow...a damned shame. She almost liked him. A real cutie, gorgeous cheekbones.

Oh, well. Such is life.

* * *

*Yeah, Wayne family.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: You get this now because for the next two days, I actually have to be _out of my house_.

* * *

 _"Huche!"_

Foggy pokes his head out from behind his laptop.

"What was that."

"Dust."

"Lies!" He slams his hands down and gets up. Matt winces-there's a loose screw in that desk that screeches every time it's jostled, and he's about thirty seconds away from either ripping it out, tightening it, or hurling the desk out the window to make it stop. "You were out all night, weren't you."

"Don't be absurd."

"You were. I knew you would be. Every time someone mentions 'endangered children', you go. Also, you brought bagels, which you only do if you've been out all night and feel guilty."

Yeah, that last one's true. He refuses to confirm or deny the first one.

"Besides," Foggy continues, pacing up and down and nearly knocking over the (nearly empty, his throat's _killing_ him) water cooler. "you look like death, you sound like death, and you've sneezed like, thirty times in twenty minutes."

His voice has risen steadily throughout the conversation and Matt's quiet, "Foggy...volume..." goes either unheard or ignored.

"So." he finishes, leaning against the doorframe with the air of one who has won and knows it, "you were out all night. In the rain. Own it."

"Okay. Yes. But nothing happened, there was a mugging, that's all."

"You're sick now."

"It doesn't work that way..."

"You have a cold, though."

"It's dust, I told you-"

"Karen? Would you come here?"

Oh, this is unfair. He _expects_ the criminals to gang up on him. But his own friends? Really?

He lays his head down on the desk and feels his glasses fall off his nose. The sudden relief in pressure is a gift.

"What's up?"

"Does he look like death to you?"

"I'm fine." His insistence is ruined by another sneeze, and he pretends not to hear Karen's little squeak of 'too precious for this world'. "Really. It's allergies."

"You sound like death." she says. "Look up."

No.

They don't leave and he finally looks up.

"Yeah, you look like death."

"I do not-"

"Matt, buddy, you really do."

Humph.

"I'm fine."

"Go home."

"I don't need to-"

A car alarm goes off two blocks over and he cringes at the sudden blaring. Foggy makes the little noise he makes when he's been proven right.

"Go home."

"We can handle things here, Matt." Karen says kindly. "If you need to go home and rest."

"She means get out before we carry you home."

No. And they will not make him. He's _fine_ , he's had worse.

Saying so only makes the other two huff at him and position themselves on either side of him.

"Out. You're banished to your apartment until you look less like dying. And no going out!"

"I-" He cuts himself off with another sneeze. "I can sit here and do paperwork."

"Matt." Oh, no. That's Foggy's 'Guilt Trip Imminent' voice. "Suppose some poor, dear, sweet gramamma comes in for advice. You sneeze near her. She goes home, carrying your germs, and not only gets the flu herself, but she gives it to her dear, precious, prematurely born grandbaby. How can you live with yourself?"

"Foggy..."

"Go. Home."

"You're just going to stand there and distract me until I leave, aren't you."

"Yup!"

He sighs and promptly starts to cough. It's times like this that he's really not sure if friends are worth it if this is what they do to you.*

"You really should go home."

"All right, all right..." But he doesn't have to like it. "Let me just get my-"

"I got it!" There's a flurry of paper-gathering and the sounds of folders being tucked into his briefcase. "Now go home and _sleep_. No reading, no paperwork, no nothing. Sleep."

"I'm fi-"

"If you say you are fine one more time I will get the air-horn." Foggy threatens. "Don't make me get the air-horn."

"Why do you have an air-horn?"

"Amazon Deal of the Day."

That...really doesn't answer his question, but the coffeemaker is making a sound like it's dying and it's grating against his eardrums. Maybe he can go home and work. It's not like they're going to know unless they call, which they won't because he might be sleeping.

"Do you want us to take you home?"

"No."

"Do you promise to go straight there, then?"

"Yes." he groans. "I promise to go straight home. I swear on..." He shrugs, picks up the stapler that has seen better days and may have been used as a weapon, if the stale scent of blood and chipping on the back is any indication. "This. I swear on the stapler."

There's a beat of silence and Foggy snorts.

"Yeah. Sure. Get out."

"Feel better, Matt."

Well. At least one of them is being nice to him. That's probably on purpose-some twisted good-cop bad-cop routine.

Humph.

He gathers his cane and briefcase and wishes that the owner of the panicking car would _please_ come shut it up.

* * *

His intent was to go home and work. Really, it was. But then he ended up having to work in his bed, because the neighbour across the hall was running the vaccuum and he was desperate to put some space between them.

And then he fell asleep.

He comes to with the worst cricked neck of all time and a lingering pounding in his head...no. Not in his head. On the door. And it's not really a pounding, just a steady knocking, but...

"Hang on." Oww...speaking hurts. Speaking really hurts. "Be right there..."

Delivery guy-he can smell flowers.

"Hello?"

"Matthew Murdock?"

"Yeah." Who is sending him anything? The last client they had sent peanut butter cookies to the office, and those are long gone. "Who are you again?"

"Oh, right. Miss du Maurier heard you were sick."

WHAT.

How? Why. Why is this his life? Foggy will never find about this, he can't. He _won't_.

"That doesn't answer my question." Gotta keep up appearances.

"She sent you...I don't even know, man, carnations? They're white and fluffy." They are indeed carnations. "There's a card."

"Thanks."

This is weird. And creepy. And bad. Very bad.

"Uh-huh. Enjoy, man."

The card's in braille-technically it's a get-well-card (the letters on the front are raised glitter, _anyone_ could feel them out), but the message inside is most certainly not.

 _Thanks for the help, darling. Thought the flowers might brighten up that drab apartment of yours. -A_

Yeah. Why is this his life.

"Foggy. Foggy. Foggy."

Oww...is his ringer breaking? He didn't set it up to be that loud, he knows he didn't.

"Hello?"

"DUDE." Foggy's excited and freaked out at the same time. "You'd never guess what just happened."

"What."

"Yeah, du Maurier just came by. Like, half an hour ago. She brought us an office plant and check with zeroes on it."

He's not so sure about the check.

"Tell me you didn't cash the check."

"I didn't. I said we couldn't take it. Kept the plant, though."

At least there's that.

"That's exciting."

"Yeah, she said she hopes you feel better soon." He's noticed. "You doing okay? You sound weird."

"Dozing off."

"No. No! Whyy?"

"You said to-"

He's cut off by Karen's voice in the background: "Pay up and let him go back to sleep!"

"You cost me twenty bucks!"

"Sorry?"

"Screw you, Murdock-okay, okay! I'm hanging up, don't _pull_ -!"

 _Click._

Matt puts his phone down and wonders, what, exactly, it is they _do_ when he's not there. Do they make bets like this all the time? Is that a Thing?

He probably doesn't want to know.

He turns his attention back to the carnations. He should put them in water, he supposes-it's not their fault they were probably bought with Murder Money.**

He should have asked what the plant was, he realises belatedly. It's probably a venus flytrap or something with thorns.

He'll find out tomorrow.

* * *

*They're worth it, Matt. Most people aren't nice enough/dumb enough to give you stitches after rescuing you from a dumpster. IN CASE YOU NEEDED REMINDING.

**Drug money, but what Matt doesn't know won't hurt him.


	5. Chapter 4

vxmpire-Aww, thanks! I can tell you what she gets up to: murder. Murder, drug running, and reading internet articles on the Winter Soldier going, 'yeah, if he needs a job, he can be my new personal bodyguard because _goddamn_.'

* * *

Matt considers himself a very forgiving, peaceful person.

Apart from, well, beating up crime in alleyways, but when it comes to neighbourly rage, he's...lenient. It's not their fault he has...exceptional...senses.

But if ever he were going to murder somebody, it might be his downstairs neighbour. Matt's never met him-he's just dubbed him 'He Who Has No Indoor Voice'. He likes to sing, this neighbour. But...if Matt's going to be generous...well...the guy shouldn't quit his day job.

His voice cracks on a high note and Matt pulls his pillow over his head. At least in college, he could rely on any singers passing out drunk in short order. Not so anymore.

 _Why me?_

He tried going out tonight-he's not that bad off-but he was halfway out the window when he started coughing and couldn't quite stop, and then it occured to him that maybe that would ruin any hope he had of stealth.

Also, Foggy's hypothetical gramma and premature grandchild are not helping.*

So on top of feeling sick, he's feeling ridiculously guilty-somebody already got mugged a few blocks down, but they at least survived-and his neighbour is not helping.

Screw it. Apartment law says banging on the floor is totally acceptable in this situation.

He gets up-ugh-and fetches the mop and proceeds to bang it on the floor a little harder than strictly necessary. The singing stops abruptly and there's a strangled, "Sorry!"

His throat's too sore to answer and he makes his way back to bed, grateful for the silence and a little sorry he had to interrupt He Who Has No Indoor Voice's night. It's only nine, he really shouldn't complain.

His phone informs him he has a text and he shuffles back to his room. The text is from Foggy- _STAY IN TONIGHT, you don't want to infect that poor great gramma._

He considers not answering, but then he might find his apartment invaded without warning.

 _I'm not._

 _If you come in with so much as a papercut, I'll know you went out and I'll tell Karen that story about the goat._

 _I'm staying in. Night, Fog._

His phone stays silent after that and he crawls under the covers, trying-and failing-to block out the radio downstairs and the bar fight down the street and-

Everything.

* * *

Matt's startled out of a semi-sound sleep by pounding footsteps-light, short legspan-and a scream of, "Ayúdame!"**

Child's voice. He can't ignore that one, they'll just have to risk getting sick.

He's down the fire escape in record time and it's actually _really really cold and where is that kid-_

That way. Now that he's actually outside, he can hear another set of footsteps, and muffled swearing.

They're closer than he thought-literally, they're like a block away-and he gets there just as the kid comes tearing around the corner-and runs smack into someone else.

"Me puso! Me puso!"

"Hey!" Oww...maybe no more shouting. "What do you think you're doing!"

"Shit."

"Go, go!"

One of them drops the kid on the sidewalk and they both book it, their footsteps wet and heavy on the rainy cement. He should give chase, but...he's not in the mask and there's the child-a little girl, he thinks-to consider.

"Hey." He won't be speaking tomorrow. "You okay?"

Panting, a gasp of surprise. Then, in accented, broken english, "Thank...you."

"Está herido?"

"No." Frightened, though-her heart's going a mile a minute. "No, quiero que mi mamá..."

"Shh, shh. Te llaman. Cuál es el número?"

She rattles one off and he remembers he left his phone-both of them-on his bedside table. He can't very well leave her here, but if he tries to take her up there she might panic and run. Or he'll be arrested for kidnapping.

There's a coffee shop a little ways back, they'll go there.

"Vamos."

No one's here apart from one overtired waitress, and at first she doesn't say anything, but then she must get a good look at them because she bustles towards them as though she might knock him out if he appears to be doing anything to the little girl.

"What can I do for you?" Yeah, suspicious.

"I rescued her from a kidnapping." he explains softly. "I need to call her mom, she's scared out of her mind."

That pulls her up short. There's more noise-cups clinking and coffee-no, hot chocolate-being poured and then a cell phone is being pressed into his hand.

"I need you to type in the number." he says.

"Oh-right, I'm sorry..."

"It's fine."

He gives her the number, hears her type it in before handing the phone back. Then she kneels in front of the little girl and makes cooing noises before offering her a mug. Then someone picks up.

"Hola?"

"Hola, mi nombre es Matt, tu hija..." How to go about this?

"Esperanza?" The woman's voice is high, frightened, and there's a flurry of movement in the background. "Dios mío, qué ha pasado?"

"Nada, nada, ella esta bien, pero ella está asustada. Estamos en una cafetería..." He breaks off. "What is this place called?"

"Lalla's."

"Thanks. Ah, estamas en Lalla's, en Pine Street."

She doesn't even thank him, just hangs up. She won't be long.

"Her mom's coming."

"Shouldn't we call the police?"

He shrugs and promptly sneezes. She pours another mug-coffee, this time-and gives it to him.

"Thanks."

"You brave, sweet thing-"

"It's nothing-"

She huffs at him and all but drags him to a booth.

"Sit down right here, I'll see about some pancakes."

"Really, I-"

But she's gone and he's left alone with Esperanza.

"Tu mamá en su camino." he says. "Ella estará aquí pronto." She doesn't answer. "Qué ha pasado?"

It takes a while, but she eventually tells him that she was coming home from her friend's house when a woman asked her the time, and then tried to grab her.

Well, well. Isn't this interesting.

Her mother arrives just as they're finishing their pancakes, and there's much crying and hugging. He gets dragged into the hugging bit.

The waitress offers to take him home, but he insists he's fine and by the time he gets back in he's got her number-great-and it's around midnight.

Foggy, he thinks tiredly, is not going to be very happy with him tomorrow.

* * *

*Heh. See? Foggy's had practice at this, probably started in college. 'Uh, Matt, you've been out of the hospital for like, twelve hours, maybe you shouldn't give pneumonia to the pregnant lady behind you, okay?'

**Spanish, in order: 'help me', 'put me down', 'are you hurt?', 'I want my mom', 'I'll call her. What's the number?' 'come on/let's go', 'hi, my name is Matt, your daughter...' 'my god, what happened?' 'nothing, nothing, she's fine, but she's scared. We're at a coffee shop...' 'your mom's on her way, she'll be here soon'. It's cobbled together from Google translate, high school, and general living in an area with a lot of Spanish speakers (Arizona), but if there's errors, lo siento.


	6. Chapter 5

Reader-anonymous-writer-Welsh? The idiot that sent a mook into Angelique's apartment. Probably wants to move up in the world. Pay him no mind, he's been dealt with. And one day, I will be nice to Matt and let him not feel guilty. But not today! Today, guilt. So very much of it. Many thanks!

* * *

"Matt." Yeah, Foggy's not a happy camper. "What did I say last night?"

"Foggy, listen-"

"That's it. I'm telling Karen about the goat."

"There was a-"

"Overruled! Karen?"

"There was a little girl being kidnapped practically on my doorstep, what was I supposed to do?"

"Oh." He hears Foggy deflate a little. "Never mind, Karen."

"No, really, what'd you want?"

"I forgot."

"Okay." She doesn't believe him. "If you remember, let me know."

The door shuts.

"Kidnapping? Really?"

"I swear, I was asleep, and then..." He shrugs. "What was I supposed to do, let her get grabbed? She was nine."

"Only you." Foggy groans. "This shit only happens to you."

Yeah, Matt's not entirely positive he's not being punished for...for what? Something.

"I'm noticing that, actually."

"Was it...related?"

"I think so."

"Great, they've left the park."

"I know."

"What now?"

"Still working on that one."

There's the tapping of a pen, followed by, "Come check out the new plant. It's spiky. I think it's some sort of palm."

Called it.

The plant is sitting by the window. It is indeed spiky-Matt jabs his finger on the tip and wonders if du Maurier sent this thing with that in mind.

"Is it poisoned?"

"It smells normal."

"Oh, good. That would have been a great assassination method though, I mean, really."

"Foggy, that's not funny." Karen scolds. "She said it wouldn't die no matter how bad we are with plants, by the way. I...don't really know how I feel about that."

He vows then and there to leave the plant alone.

* * *

Much as he doesn't want to, he takes advantage of du Maurier's unlocked window later.

"You know, the last person who didn't knock paid dearly for it." She's got absinthe this time, and she's not alone. "Daphne, dear, this is...well, I actually don't have a name yet. I'm sure you recognise him nonetheless."

"Oui."

"Mm. Sit down, darling, I don't like it when people tower over me." Just for that, he's tempted to stay right here, but he needs to keep her in a good mood. "Can I get you anything? Daphne's absolutely _marvelous_ with her hands, I'm sure you're _tense_..."

"No."

"All work and no play." She takes a sip and moans. " _Right_ there, dear...good girl. Very well. What do you want to see me about? Finish that little job I gave you?"

"I'm not working for you." he snaps. She laughs at him.

"Don't be coy." He glowers and she flaps a hand at him. "Whatever. What do you want."

He nods towards the other woman-girl, nervous, carrying two knives and a handgun.

"This really isn't a subject for sensitive ears."

There's a scoff and another hand-flap.

"Run along, Daphne. It's all right."

She leaves and du Maurier sighs.

"This had better be good, robbing me of my massage."

"They've moved out of the park." He won't mention exactly where. "And one of them is a woman, big, uses perfume from Sharpe's-Rosy Cheeks. The other is a thin man with glasses and a scar under one eye."

"Mm." She takes a long swallow. "And where are they looking now?"

"In town."

"That's not an answer."

"That's all you're getting."

"Such a tease." She stretches. He hears something pop-spine, sounds like. "Ohh...since you chased out my nice girl, you can come over here and get the kinks out."

He's actually going to leave now.

"Just thought you'd like to know."

"Oh, my god, you're _pink_." She laughs at him again, slightly tipsy but (probably) not to the giggly-drunk stage. "That's adorable."

"Good bye."

"Oh, very well. Here's a tip for you, before you leave-Timothy Nightingale."

"Thank you." he grinds out.

"Mm. Be careful, most of us are carrying shotguns now." She sighs. "Daphne! Come back."

He leaves, but this is one of those times that super-hearing is a terrible thing. He's a block out when she turns to her companion and murmurs, "I really do _love_ to watch him go."

* * *

Timothy Nightingale is, for all intents and purposes, a janitor. Quiet, unassuming, lives alone with two cats and never causes any trouble.

Really, it's a shame he has to drag the guy out of bed and up to the roof, but there's the small matter of the cholorform he can smell in the apartment.

"What do you know?" he demands, forcing the man backwards over the railing. He could, in theory, drop him off the roof and not kill him, but he's not really in the mood. He's stuffy and his throat is sore and he really would like to go home and get a hot toddy.

"I know nothing, man, not one damn thing! I swear, I swear-JESUS CHRIST, I SWEAR!"

Matt notices that he's a little further over the railing than he intended. It's not that he's above dropping him, but he still needs him and he'd have to climb down and get him and...he really doesn't want to.

"Explain the chloroform."

"Kinky sex thing, honest-"

His pants may as well be on fire.

"Don't lie to me."

"Okay! Okay! This guy at the docks said I could make easy money supplying him with it. Not like it's that hard to get or nothin', I dunno why he wanted me to get it-"

 _More space between him and me._

"What was his name?"

"I don't know, he never gave me one!" Another inch backwards never hurt anybody. "Okay, okay! Solo, he said his name was Solo!"

 _You've got to be kidding me._

The guy's telling the truth, though, outrageous though it seems. Matt tugs him a little ways away from the railing and hisses, "You get rid of it, you get out of town. I catch you back here-I catch you doing this again..."

He has to stop there, thanks to having to swallow a cough, but the pause is effective-Nightingale starts blubbering promises about his children's children never stepping foot in Hell's Kitchen again, so help him God.

Matt can still hear him panicking-as he flings his clothes into a suitcase-a block away.


	7. Chapter 6

holmes7-Thank _you_.

* * *

"Solo? Seriously?"

"Uh-huh."

"And he was telling the truth?"

"Uh-huh."

"These assholes are defiling _Star Wars_ on top of everything else. Matt, I don't...like it...when you put people in comas, but if you were to have a meltdown and _accidentally_ drop this guy off a five-story building..."

Truth be told, he's not sure what he's going to do with 'Solo' when he catches him. On one hand, he really, really doesn't want to give the guy to du Maurier, because that's murder-by-proxy, but the system has a terrible track record with 'never, ever, _ever_ letting these creeps out again'.*

He has to think about it.

"We'll see."

"See what?" Karen arrives bearing donuts-two glazed, two chocolate filled, and two of those horrible strawberry frosted ones with sprinkles. "Breakfast-one of the pink ones is _mine_ , Foggy, FYI."

"I know, I know."

"So? See what?"

"Matt putting a child trafficker in a coma."

"I don't..." Oh, what's the point? They'll latch onto that and hold on until the world ends. "Ignore him, Karen."

"If anyone deserves it, though..."

He groans and plunks his head down on the desk-but not before swiping a glazed donut from the box.

* * *

"He will screw you over, Mademoiselle." Daphne frets. "He will-what is the phrase? 'Fuck you with a chainsaw'."

Angelique laughs and reaches up to tousle the girl's hair.

"Honey, honey...relax. He's a madman in a mask. Also, there are more interesting things than me at the moment."

She tests the bath water, nods, and slides the robe off her shoulders before stepping in.

"Lovely...Daphne, dear, would you fetch me my lavender bath oil? Thank you."

"Mademoi- _selle_!" Oh, for heaven's sake, why the sudden nerves? "James cannot walk without a cane, what if he does that to you?"

"I have no qualms about dragging his lawyer friends into this if I need to." Ahh...at last. Warm water, lavender oil, no phone in sight... "Don't worry so much."

"But that will make it worse!"

"I never said I'd kill them. Relax." She scoops up a handful of bubbles. "Do me a favour and get my back, would you?"

"I only worry because of you." she grumbles, but she does come over and pick up the scrubbie. "You know that."

"You know better than to worry about me." she says, closing her eyes. "I always have a backup plan."

In this case, backup plan, thy name is 'fuck if I know'. But she's not overly concerned. Really, if he lays a finger on her, she can arrange for there to be _such_ a public outcry...

She probably should think about doing that now, actually. He's all but _destroyed_ the criminal economy, and it's impossible to find good help anymore, what with half in the hospital or prison and the other half scared shitless.

Really, the man's an asshole. But a well-built one, she'll grant him that. No fashion taste, though...those horns. _God_ , no. Somewhere, her mother is weeping at the tackiness. What is he, blind? Tsk, tsk...she ought to bring it up next time. He's probably single, with no one to tell him, 'sweetie, NO'.

Men.

She goes straight from the bath to bed, her hair still a little bit damp, and is actually half-asleep when there's a nasty **CRASH!** from downstairs, followed by shouting.

If Daredevil has decided to try and screw her over, he's in for a nasty surprise. Her boys by the docks are lousy shots and usually drunk anyway. Her personal guards, on the other hand, are trained, sober, and work with dogs. He won't get further than the hallway.

She gets up, feeling resentful towards whomever it is downstairs, and pulls on a robe. What is going on down there...

It isn't Daredevil. It's not anybody, actually-or at least, not anybody breathing. It's a corpse, one of her outside guards, with half his face ripped off and the rest of him cut apart by glass after a trip through a window.

Well, well. Seems that somebody wants to play a game.

"Daphne?"

"Oui?"

She's got to give it to the girl. Six months ago she would have a weeping spectacle. She's learned much.

"Call the police. The rest of you, get away before you contaminate anything."

"It is the Devil." Daphne murmured. Angelique scoffed.

"Don't be a fool, this isn't his work. He doesn't leave messages. This is something else."

A madman, by the looks of it.

Fantastic.

* * *

*They really do. I live within walking distance of an elementary school and there's: one rapist next door to me, one pedo a block over or so, and I _think_ another rapist nearby, but that one might have moved. The next-door one? He's labeled as 'extremely likely to reoffend' and is still out in public. The system sucks regarding these creatures.


	8. Chapter 7

AN: Angelique definitely has a Tumblr. It's probably 'maybeitsmishap_maybeitsmurder' or something. But...Matt. And his 'I'm Not Daredevil' sweater. Yeah.

vxmpire-Matt can.

* * *

"Matt, you see the news this morning?"

"...I'll just let you think about that, Foggy."

"Very funny. Seriously, something went down at du Maurier's last night. One of her night watchmen got thrown through a window. Guess he was all cut up and everything."

"Probably tried to rob her."

"Police are saying it's a death threat."

"They would."

"Think it's related to your...extracurricular activity?"

Possible but not probable. There really isn't as much honour among thieves as the media likes to say there is. She probably ticked someone off, or this guy _tried something._

He'll be dropping by, though. If he can prove _she_ did it, he can cart her ass to jail.

Oh, that would be nice...one less problem to deal with.

Also, she can't flirt at him from prison. Hopefully.

* * *

"I didn't kill him." she informs him. She's telling the truth, which almost disappoints him. "Thought you should know that before you break my collarbone."

"I wasn't here about that."

"Oh? I'm surprised." There's the soft clack-clack of beads and he notices the faint scent of sandalwood. "Why are you here, then?"

"What do you know about a man who calls himself Solo?"

"Nothing. Why?"

Again, truth. He ignores the question.

"Why was that man killed?"

"Why should I know?" She stands up and crosses the room. There's the striking of a match and a second later the muted scent of incense (rose) strengthens. "There's plenty of people that would like to get rid of me, it's nothing new."

"No ideas at all?"

"No."

She's lying. She has ideas, she _knows_ , or at least knows something.

"Don't lie to me."

"Stay in your lane." she snaps. "This has nothing to do with you, I can handle it myself. You just take care of our little trafficking problem. Marvelous job, by the way, they've gone to ground. No whispers at all now."

"They can't hide from me."

"Cockiness doesn't suit you, darling. Especially in _that_ fashion disaster. This isn't Gotham City, there's no reason to treat every day like Halloween."

He ignores that, too. Uncalled for.

"I think it's related." Maybe. There's a tiny chance it's related.

"I think you've seen too many detective movies." There's the sound of the beads being set down and she comes towards him. "As I said-stay in your lane. This has nothing to do with you. The police will do their jobs, it'll turn out to be some nut-probably a stalker or something-and that'll be the end of it."

"You think they're related, too." he accuses. "You wouldn't have called the police if it didn't rattle you. You would have taken care of it yourself."

"One tends to call the police when corpses appear in their hallway, dear."

"Not you." She stops where she is. "Not you, you take care of these things without their help. You're nervous, you know what this is about and you're nervous."

"So what if I am?" Ah, she's on the defensive. He's right after all. "I don't need some lunatic in a costume to come to my rescue. I can manage."

"Never said you couldn't. You're the one insisting."

Her breath catches, but she doesn't say anything for a long moment.

"Perhaps you're right." she says at last. "You didn't see...the papers didn't have everything. His heart was ripped out. Not cut- _ripped_. It was horrible..."

Her voice catches, but her heart is calm. Maybe it was horrible, but she's not nearly as broken up as she'd like him to think. He'll go with it for now.

"I'm sorry."

She sniffles a bit and he hears her pull a tissue from her pocket.

"You're very sweet." She's not crying. She's not even _trying_ to cry. She's probably turned away from him to hide this fact. "Look. I don't want anyone else to get hurt, that's all. But if you think you can...take care of this..." Alarm bells go off in his head. He knows how this plays out-crying, sympathy, he gets lured into a trap and dies horribly. Foggy would raise him from the grave to slap him upside the head for his stupidity. "My security camera-the police took it, but I took a look myself first-it showed two men. One tall, thin, with glasses and a scar under one eye, and the other was built like a linebacker. They jumped the wall, and then they must've lured David into one of the blind spots. They've been here before, if they knew where one was."

"Does it show them leaving?"

"Yes. Into a white van, I think it might have been a catering van-there was a fork on the side of it."

He'll look into that. Carefully, else he suffer the Wrath of Foggy.

"Thank you. That's...helpful."

She laughs, shaky and carefully nervous, and comes over to him. He stays where he is, braced to restrain her if she tries something stupid, like grabbing for his mask. She won't, he's sure, but still.

"Stop them." He will, but not because of her damsel-in-distress act. "Please."

He's prepared for her to move, but not for her to hug him, and certainly not for her to kiss him. Before he can shove her off, she's let go and walked away.

"Is there anything else you wanted?"

He can't laugh at Foggy now. He could-it's not like he has to share-but somehow...somehow the amusement is gone.

He leaves without a word.

* * *

It's the (blatantly corrupt) dock worker's bad luck that he happens to need a cigarette break right now, and that his friends don't smoke.

Matt takes the opportunity and runs with it.

"Who's the guy calling himself Solo?"

"Jesus Christ!"

"I don't believe that. Try again."

The guy remembers his cigarette and tries to use it as a weapon. Matt is decidedly unimpressed, and lets him know it by flicking the ashes off his shirt.

"I don't know, man, I swear!"

Liar.

He punches him in the face, hears his nose break. Too bad.

"This is how it's going to go. The more you lie to me, the more I hurt you. Sound good?"

The guy gets a burst of adrenaline and manages to knee him in the stomach and make a break for it. He gets maybe five steps.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He wrenches the man's arm backward, just shy of popping the shoulder out of its socket. "So. Who's Solo?"

"I don't know nothin' about this guy! He shows up with the money, that's it!"

Still lying. This calls for a dislocated shoulder.

He pulls back _hard_ , hears the pop and feels the give, and a second later there's screaming and a stream of information. Apparently Solo's checks are from a 'Luke Solo' (he calls bullshit, absolute bullshit), he's always alone, and walks with a limp-needs a heavy cane. Said cane has a skull on it and his new friend is convinced that it's a child's skull, but there's no way to see for sure.

For Solo's sake, it better not be. He will not be responsible for any terrible things that could happen if it is.

"That wasn't so bad." He gets up. "Go get that checked out, then go turn yourself in to Brett Mahoney."

He feels a little bit guilty about that last one-Brett's been complaining to Foggy that 'I am not Jim Motherfucking Gordon, man' and 'it's like a cat bringing you murder presents or something'. But it can't be helped-he trusts Brett not to kill the guy or let him out.

Though maybe, just maybe, he'll get the man a Batman shirt or something for Christmas. It'll be a complete coincidence.

Foggy will have to describe Brett's face in detail later, though.


	9. Chapter 8

Reader-anonymous-writer-If only things were that easy...

* * *

"A _skull_?" Foggy's voice is equal parts incredulous and horrified. "A skull? Seriously? You're not just saying that so I don't yell at you for picking fights with crime?"

"That is what the man said. And for the last time, I don't-"

Foggy steamrolls right over him.

"You do, don't even try to deny it." Foggy sighs. "A skull? That's some seriously fucked-up shit."

"I'm aware of that, actually."

"No, seriously, that's...there are no words for how fucked up that is."

He wonders what Foggy would say if he told him everything-that the skull supposedly belonged to a child. Probably nothing-when Foggy's shocked enough he goes still and silent and Matt's pretty sure he opens and closes his mouth a few times, but it's not like he can ask if that's true.

"I know."

"Now you have to kick his ass. But if he has a gun, at least pretend to be careful."

"I'm always careful."

"Your definition clashes with my definition. But whatever. Just...just be careful."

Foggy worries too much. Matt can take care of himself.

* * *

Maybe Foggy had a point, he thinks blearily at two thirty AM. Maybe he shouldn't have risked jumping that guy with the knife...or at least been a little more wary and a little less 'he's scared and drunk, his reflexes are compromised'.

Ow.

It's not _that_ bad, as far as injuries go. He's had worse. It doesn't need stitches, anyway. He gives the area around the cut an experimental poke and promptly regrets it.

On the bright side, he did find out that Solo (Solo...he still can't get over that one), has a friend who works in a pawn shop not far from the docks. He's trying to ignore any implications of this, for his own sanity.

And also so he doesn't straight-up murder the pawn shop guy tomorrow night. That would be bad.

Although, if he were willing to go there (he's not, but this is purely hypothetical), he could ask du Maurier to clean everything up. He won't, but he could.

No. He's not going down that road, murder is not a choice.

Ohh...this actually hurts. It's in a bad spot, is all-moving his arms past a certain angle stretches it. He finds the most comfortable position to lie in and tries not to move at all.

Hell's Kitchen is quiet tonight, or as quiet as it will ever be. There's an argument right next door that's impossible to drown out, but it's not violent or even particularly heated.

Someone on the other side pounds on the wall with a broom and the voices hush immediately. Matt pulls the blankets up a bit-mistake, mistake, don't move like that again-and lets sleep claim him.

* * *

He wakes two hours later when he moves in his sleep and the knife wound lets him know that he shouldn't have done that.

"Karen. Karen. Karen."

What?

He fumbles for his phone and nearly drops it.

"Hello?"

"Matt?" She's upset. She's about to cry. "Are you...um...out?"

"What's wrong?" He had a shirt...it was right here...there! "Are you okay? Is Foggy okay?"

"C-can you come to the office? Please?"

"Yeah, I'll be right there. You're both okay?"

"Yeah, we're...we're good. Just..."

"I'll be right there."

"Okay. We're okay, don't freak out, just...hurry. Please."

Somehow that doesn't make him feel any better. Karen _never_ calls him at night. Or, really, during the day, unless it's important. Probably because his phone-answering track record is...kinda bad.

Okay, it's terrible.

He may or may not take the shortcut involving rooftops and a fire escape, but he's mostly unruffled (apart from the newly-bleeding cut...why?) when he gets there. Unfortunately, said bleeding cut throws Karen into a panic. Oops.

"Matt! What happened, are you okay-"

"I'm fine. What's going on?"

But he really doesn't have to ask. Someone's been here-judging by the perfume smell, it's the linebacker woman. Perfume aside, something's wrong-he can't place it, but something isn't right.

"Something's wrong."

Karen nods.

"Everything's...everything's just torn apart. The drawers are out, papers are everywhere...someone was looking for something." She presses a piece of paper-thick, gritty, brown paper bag?-into his hands. "And then there's this."

"Note?"

"Yeah. It doesn't _say_ anything, it's just got a skull, but I think I get the point."

Yeah. He gets the point, too.

"Did you call Foggy?"

"No. Not yet. I didn't..."

"What were you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Yeah, there's not much he can say about that one.

"You came in and it was like this?"

"I heard someone...just for a minute, I thought it was you or Foggy, so I opened the door, but there was no one."

He remembers du Maurier's goon, remembers what she said- _his heart was ripped out. Not cut,_ ripped.

A wave of relief hits him, hard and sudden enough that it threatens to knock him over. Karen misunderstands it-of course she does, she doesn't _know_ -and assumes it's blood loss.

"Matt, you should go to the hospital-"

"It's fine. Just a small cut." Well, in comparison to some. "Karen-" The perfume's cloying, does she smell it? "Don't...don't go anywhere alone at night for a little bit. Okay?"

"This is about _that_ , isn't it. The traffickers, everything."

"I think so. This is meant for Daredevil, not for us."

"What if they know-"

"It'd be at my apartment instead." He hopes, anyway. "Come on, let's clean things up. If Foggy sees, he'll start in on his 'let's move to Spain' thing again."


	10. Chapter 9

AN: I don't feel one bit bad for any pain and/or misery forthcoming.

Well...maybe just a little bit, because Foggy and Karen won't be very happy and Matt does kinda look like like an abandoned puppy.

* * *

Foggy is not pleased. They're mostly cleaned up by the time he arrives, but he's not happy, and he's even less happy that they didn't call him.

There isn't much Matt can do about that except to apologise and point out that all he could do was help clean up, because calling the police was out of the question anyway, so...

He ends up cheating by looking as sad and sorry as he possibly can, resulting in Foggy sighing and complaining but ultimately letting it drop. Mostly.

The perfume smell lingers horribly for the better part of the day, and it's still there-faint, but there-when they lock up for the night. Karen and Foggy go to Josie's, and he knows they know why he declines their invitation. He also knows they're not thrilled, but there's nothing he can do about that.

The pawn shop is a seedy little place that smells like death and despair. It's been here since the dawn of time, and has probably been cleaned exactly once since its inception. The only person here is an equally grimy man seated behind the counter, who must not be looking at him because his heart is steady.

"We're closed."

He noticed. Locked doors tend to mean 'closed'. That doesn't mean he cares.

"We need to talk."

"Step off, man."

Well, he tried to be nice.

The man has time to let out one high-pitched squeal before he's dragged over the counter and flung into a glass case.

"Who's Solo."

"I don't know nobody by that name."

A wooden bookshelf is the next victim. It splinters and the man groans when Matt hauls him up by his collar.

"I dunno, man, I swear!"

 _Ding-ding._

He drops the man in the rubble. Man, middle-aged, carrying a cane.

What luck.

"I understand you've been looking for me, Mister Devil." He can't place that accent. "Well. Here I am."

"Solo."

The man laughs and steps forward, the heavy cane making a hideously final _clunking_ noise as he moves.

"Some call me that. My name, though, is Whisper.*"

Alarm bells go off in his head. People like this only ever share their names if they mean to kill you right after.

He doesn't sound like a big man, and as far as Matt can tell his only weapon is the cane. (Is that bone? Mostly it just smells like metal and wood.)

"You've been quite the problem for me, Mister Devil." Whisper continues. "Terrorizing my men and interrupting my...acquisitions. Tsk, tsk."

"Is that what you're calling them? _Acquisitions_?" He can't keep the disbelief from his voice. "You're sick."

"We all have to make money."

There is nothing he can say to that. Really, the only acceptable reply is a punch to the face.

He doesn't even get that-Whisper's _fast_ , brings the cane up and knocks his hand aside without so much as flinching. Huh. Lucky block.

"I wouldn't do that."

"No, you just kidnap little kids off the street."

"Such an ugly turn of phrase-"

This time the bastard's not fast enough to block him and Matt feels the oh-so-satisfying _crunch_ of bones breaking. The satisfaction is brief-Whisper's quick to recover and quick to retaliate, swinging the cane and getting a lucky shot to the knife wound on his ribs. That thing's heavy and definitely metal, with sharp bits on the front that do actually feel like teeth.

Whisper's friend is emboldened by that and Matt barely dodges the chair thrown at him. It doesn't hit Whisper, unfortunately-he's just as quick to dodge and the chair crashes into the floor a few feet away. He grabs the friend and flings him into Whisper.

He's not braced for Whisper to throw the man off and _fly_ at him, flailing wildly with the cane. The blows are relentless and he ends up on his back, choking on a couple of broken ribs.

Then there's gunfire.

Whisper freezes and Matt knows he should take advantage of this to grab the cane and clock him over the head with it, but he can't even move without coughing. Getting home is going to be _fun_.

Whisper flees and he tries to force himself up- _get UP, go get him_ -but that particular task is a little bit beyond his capabilities.

He's not sure if he hopes the gunshots were the police or the criminal element.

The door swings open.

"Go look for him-Jesus."

Oh, great. Of all the people that could have turned up...he's done something. He's done _something_ to deserve this. Was there a mugging he failed to stop? A kidnapping? Is this punishment for not calling Foggy this morning?

"Mademoiselle?"

"You two go look for the old man." Old man? He suffered this sort of assault from an _old man_?

 _Well...Stick._

 _Stick doesn't count._

 _Stick._

 _...Yeah._

"Hey. Don't be dead, you're useless to me if you die on the floor." He's so sorry to fail her. Really. "Come on...don't make me take that ugly mask off."

If she tries it, he'll break her fingers. He'll summon the energy for that if it kills him.

She pokes him with an umbrella and he supposes he should say something.

"What are you doing here."

It may have come out a little garbled, but he's pretty sure she got the idea.

"Monitoring a shipment of mine. It's such a nice night, I thought I'd pop by for a surprise inspection. There was a commotion-stop moving."

She presses the tip of the umbrella against his shoulder-yeah, that's a bruise, that's going to be interesting to explain-and he tries to smack it off. The umbrella digs a little deeper.

"Who was that?"

"Crazy old man."

"You're a terrible liar." She kneels down. "Guess that means you're not one of the lawyers...you should probably go to the hospital."

"I'm good."

"All right, then." That was easy. She stands up and he hears a smirk in her voice when she says, "On your feet."

Oh. He sees where this is going. She'll just have to be disappointed, he's fine, never been better, see? He's up. Never mind that he feels about to fall down...

 **Thud.****

* * *

*Mr. Whisper is a nod to _Batman: Gothic_. Mine's not some weird nigh-immortal priest or whatever, though. Just a creep.

**No, she didn't catch him. He's a bloody mess, she's not touching that. So now he's got another bruise from faceplanting on the floor.


	11. Chapter 10

AN: Breather chapter. Well, breather for you-poor Matt's facing something scarier than a creepy old man: Karen.

Hey, don't be reckless and this shit won't happen to you.

* * *

"Matt? Matt!"

"Dammit, Matt, you can't keep doing this to me...call an ambulance, we'll say it was a break-in..."

"M'okay..."

There's incredulous silence above him, followed by Karen's deadly whisper: _"You're 'okay'?"_

"Yeah, I'm good..." Where, in fact, is he? Smells like paper and computers...office. Somehow he got back here. How? When? "I'm okay, just give me a min-"

She cuts him off.

"We came in here to find you doing a great impression of a dead man, _Matthew_. I wouldn't call that 'okay'! Or even 'been better'!"

Ow. There's no need for her to yell at him, come on...

"She's got a point, Matt." Foggy's pissed-his voice is doing that flat, expressionless thing it does when he's trying not to explode. "She's got a really good point."

"I-"

Any defense he might have had vanishes when he tries to sit up and they descend upon him like a pair of vultures.

"Don't. Move."

That actually might be in his best interests. Everything hurts.

"What happened. And if you leave _anything_ out, so help me, I will punch you in the face, broken or not."

Foggy's irritation is lessening-he was more scared than mad. Good. Karen, on the other hand...

"Was my mask off when you found me?"

"No, we took it off, to make sure your stupid ass wasn't dead."

That's a relief.

"Before we start, I really didn't mean to-"

"Matt." Karen's actually really really scary when she's mad. "Shut up. Just don't."

"Could I have a glass of water?"

She leaves and Foggy whispers, "I think she's going to kill you."

He's not at all sure Foggy's wrong.

* * *

He leaves out the really unnecessary details, like the fact that he passed out cold trying to prove a point to du Maurier. They really don't need to know that.

At least, that's his hope. But Foggy produces a note that was apparently safety-pinned to his chest that reads, _He picked a fight with an old man, tried to be macho, and passed out at my feet. Tell him not to worry, all we did was cart him back here for you to deal with. No peeking. ;) -A_

Once Whisper is dealt with, he's gunning for her.

"'Tried to be macho', huh?"

"I thought I could do it."

"Matt, you've got two broken ribs, way too many bruises for my liking, and a probable concussion. You're kidding me, right?"

"Adrenaline?"

"You're _kidding_ me. It's not funny, but you have to be."

"I thought-"

"You tried to prove a point."

"...yes."

Foggy sighs and Matt hears his hand strike his face softly.

"Wow."

Karen returns and before he can dodge her, she smacks his shoulder. Ow. Bruise. That was uncalled for.

"Hey!"

"You're an idiot." she tells him. "And you _scared_ us. We thought...we came in and you..."

"Sorry-"

"No! No sorry! You scared us this morning, Matt! You-scared-us!" This last is punctuated with poking. To his left, Foggy's sitting in awed silence. No help from him, then. Traitor. "What the hell!" She sighs and rocks back. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I wasn't expecting him to show up."

"So the old man got the drop on you?" Gee, thanks, Foggy. "What kind of ninja are you?"

Funny, the Stick in his head is asking something similar.

"He's _fast_ , Foggy." Yeah, that...that sounded better in his head. Foggy apparently agrees, if the incredulous snort is any indication. "Really, he-"

"Go home."

"I've had worse."

"Worse?" Uh-oh. Karen probably doesn't know about Nobu. Or that time Claire rescued him from the dumpster. Well. Um. "What do you mean, _worse_?"

"Um..."

He's sure he'd feel the anger radiating off her without his heightened senses.

"We will be talking about this." she hisses. "Get out of _that_ before somebody sees you."

And with that, she stands up and stalks off, muttering about coffee.

"Wow." Foggy says after a few minutes of shocked silence. "That was...amazing."

'Thanks, Foggy."

"Do you have clothes here?"

"Uh, yeah. In my desk."

"I'm not even gonna ask. Can you stand up?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"I might need a hand." he admits. Foggy gets up and a minute later he clasps Matt's wrist in his fingers.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Standing hurts and staying upright is a Herculean effort, but he manages it all the same. He hears Foggy hunting through his desk before returning with the sweats and t-shirt he keeps there for emergencies.

"I'll go home and get cleaned up and come back."

"Don't."

"No, I...I'm fine."

"You'll come back even if I complain, huh."

"Yes."

"Fine. But I don't like it. And I'm not helping you get past Karen."

Yeah. That one actually might be a problem.

* * *

He's in luck when he comes back-Karen's out getting lunch. He heads straight for his office and sets up camp like he's been here all day.

"Dude, you look like shit."

Yeah, so he's gathered.

"Karen's not going to be happy to see you."

He resolutely sips his tea and opens the file on Cushing. Foggy cackles.

"You're so screwed."

He's fine.

His ribs are killing him, his head hurts, and he knows he's going to be stiff and miserable in about an hour, but he's fine.

"Matt!"

"I'm fine. I'm just sitting here, reviewing something. See?"

Foggy's trying not to laugh. It's so nice that somebody thinks this is funny.

"You shouldn't be here." she frets. "You don't look like you should be upright..."

"I'm fine. Really. I'm just going to sit here quietly."

She finally goes back out and Matt promptly balls up a piece of paper and chucks it at Foggy. It hits him in the forehead.

Well. At least his aim isn't impaired. That's good to know.


	12. Chapter 11

AN: Nothing to do with anything, but Angelique is (distantly) related to Tommy Shelby. (Hooker? One night stand? I dunno.) She looks a bit like him. They met once. He taught her how to cut a man's tongue out with minimal mess and no biting risk.

Yay. Family.

Elise's Angelus-Aww, thanks! Matt disagrees. He doesn't like this at all, really. But he'll just have to deal with it-if he doesn't like it, he can retire.

* * *

"My god, you're a tenacious bastard."

So he's been told.

"How are you not dead by now?"

He's...actually not sure.

He ignores her questions in favour of asking his own.

"Did you find him?"

"No. He's quick. Like you. Only less nice to look at." There's the sound of something-ice cubes, orange juice, vodka-being poured. "Drink?"

He shakes his head.

"Whisper. That's his name."

"You're kidding."

"No."

She laughs, a little disbelieving, and pads over to her chaise.

"Sit down, you must be tired."

"I'm fine."

"So you said. Right before you went down."

He sinks-grudgingly-into the hugging chair and wills his ribs to stop hurting now. They ignore him.

"Whisper, then?" She takes a long drink. "Good to know. We borrowed his friend, by the way."

"What did you do to him."

"I didn't do anything." Her heart says _truth_ , her voice says _from a certain point of view_. "You did more damage than I did."

"Is he dead."

"Oh, so suspicious." She laughs at him, takes another drink. "Never mind him. He's happy."

He's dead, then. He must be. That kind of evasion? There's no other answer.

"Quit that, I didn't kill him."

No, she probably ordered him tied to the train tracks or something.*

"Whisper. Have you heard of him?"

"I would be shooting at you if I didn't still need you. You _are_ trespassing, after all."

"That's not an answer."

She gets up and walks over and puts her hand against his cheek. He twists away and swats at her fingers.

"Oh, honey, he really did a number on you." She withdraws her hand. "You poor thing."

"What do you want."

"Whisper. Stopped." There's the sound of ice hitting soft plastic and a second later a bag soars through the air to hit him in the chest. **OW.** "And that bruise on your face less purple, it's putting me off my vodka**."

"Did the pawn shop owner tell you anything?" The ice actually feels really nice. She doesn't need to know that.

There's silence for a minute or two-well, as silent as his life ever is.

Heartbeat

 _Ice cubes clinking_

 _Someone two blocks down nearly got run over and is pissed_

"We did." she says at last. "He was very chatty. Admittedly, he had a bit of trouble-you do realise you knocked his front teeth out?-but he was...helpful. A little goldmine of information."

"What did he say about Whisper?"

"Besides insisting that the skull on his cane is a real one?" She takes a long drink and goes to the window. "He appeared out of the blue one day with a...profitable...business proposition, during that whole fiasco with Fisk. Everything was in an uproar, our economy was in shambles...I can see the attraction."

Matt grimaces. He supposes it was only a matter of time before everyone got really desperate, but he hadn't expected...

 _I'm so sorry._

"Where is he from?"

"I have no idea. I don't know how he's getting them out, either-our dear friend was clueless."

Silence settles between them again.

 _Heartbeat_

 _Ice cubes_

 _Security's watching 'The Bachelor' downstairs_

"You should be going." she says at last. "Tick-tock."

"There's nothing else you can tell me?"

"No." There's that _tone_ again, but she doesn't seem to be lying. Shame. "Run along, now."

He throws the ice pack at her with a little more force than necessary and hears it smack her in the arm. There's a beat.

"That wasn't very nice."

He smiles at her-a real one, for once-and heads for the window. He's halfway to the ground when a bullet comes within a hair's breadth of hitting him.

"That's for the ice pack, asshole!"

Aw. She likes him. He's touched.

* * *

She's not going to like it, and she might actually try to hit him next time as a result, but he borrows one of her goons.

The guy stepped out for a smoke and...didn't quite make it back inside. Matt makes a mental promise not to do too much damage and to put him back in roughly the same place he found him.

But right now he's busy threatening to drop him off a nearby rooftop. (Owners are out.)

"What do you know about Whisper?"

"Don't hurt me!"

"Then answer my questions." He forces him closer to the edge. "And you'll be fine."

"I don't know nothin', man, talk to the boss!"

He's taken to carrying a bungee cord (useful for tying up criminals for the police to find!) and he fishes it out and wraps it around the guy's ankles. He's not sure how this will go, but there's a first time for everything.

"I'm pretty sure this will hold. If not, you're not that far up."

"Oh, shit, oh, shit-"

And then Matt pushes him off the roof.

There's a scream, but it's quickly choked off when he yanks him back up. The bungee holds, but it's strained. Hopefully he won't have to risk another drop.

"What do you know?"

The guy's heart is threatening to pound right out of his chest and he's pissed himself at some point. Matt's starting to wonder if he's going to pass out from fright when he gasps out, "Okay! Okay! No one's seen him since he ran off, but the shop's been getttin' emptied out. No one goes in, no ones goes out, but the stuff keeps disappearing. That's all I know, man, I swear-"

He's telling the truth. Matt drops him and reclaims his bungee cord.

"Thanks." He pauses. "Sorry about the...uh...drop."

The only reply he gets is a terrified whine. Not much he can do about that. Maybe next time the guy'll be a little more cooperative.

* * *

*There is at least one 'texting and walking turned tragic' that wasn't...accidental. Hey, once somebody did it for real, it became an acceptable murder cover-up.

**Maybe you shouldn't have let him crash face-first into the floor, Angelique.


	13. Chapter 12

Foggy never _used_ to be this attached to his phone. Then again, he never _used_ to be best friends with a self-destructive fool, either. And it is entirely said self-destructive fool's fault that he is obsessively checking his phone to make _sure_ the volume's high and that he hasn't missed any calls or anything.

He hasn't. Which should be a good thing, and probably is, but _now_ there's the chance that Matt's bleeding out in a damned dumpster and can't call or...something.

He's staying late tonight, because here there's things to do. At home, there's nothing to do but sit and worry.

So sue him (ha). He's a worrier. Always has been. Not about _everything_ (what happens after death? who cares?), but about _people_. And right now? Right now he's worried about Matt, because this has gone beyond child trafficking and straight to 'Mob Business'.

"Good evening, Mister Nelson."

CHRIST ON A STICK-

"How did you get in?"

 _Smooth. Just piss off the crime boss, Foggy, good going._

"You don't lock your doors." She pulls the chair out and drapes herself onto it. "That's on you."

Yeah. She's got a point.

"Can I...help you?"

"Your friend is becoming a real irritant." she informs him and at first he feels a surge of pride, followed by the sinking thought of, _oh god, what's she done?_ "You understand, of course, that I'm not hoping for friendship as much as a temporary truce until this is cleared up. And threatening my men does not constitute a truce."

"No." _Help_. "No, I guess not."

"I am not going to threaten you _per se_." she continues, fishing out a cigarette and a lighter. "Because I was raised better. But I am going to inform you that I know where you live, I know where your secretary lives, and I know where your partner lives. I know your schedules, your favourite bar, and your family members. So keep that in mind."

 _Blink. Please blink now._

She smiles at him, wide and painfully insincere, and leans across the desk to pat his cheek.

"Do we understand each other?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Don't stay too late, darling, you look exhausted."

And with that, she stands up, collects her purse, and walks out the door. Foggy gives it a few minutes to make sure she's gone before digging out his regular phone and calling Karen.

She was asleep, if her slurred words and late answer time are any indication, and he's sorry, but it can't be helped.

"Karen?"

"Wha's hap'nin'?"

"You're okay? Your doors are locked?"

"Foggy?" She's more awake now. Good. "What's wrong?"

"Make sure everything's locked. I'm coming over."

"Why? It's the middle of the night!"

"Because du Maurier just dropped by and things were said and-"

"Wait, what? Slow down."

"I'll explain when I get there, just..."

"Okay."

She hangs up.

* * *

It's a long night, and they both head back to the office a little after five-thirty. They can't help it-Karen's apartment is too dark, with too many windows.

It smells like cigarette smoke in Foggy's office-or that could be lingering paranoia. He's not sure. Just to be sure, he opens the window and lights a candle. After a moment, he closes the window. Just in case.

Matt comes in a little after nine, looking tired but unharmed (for once).

"Karen. Foggy." He sneezes. "Candle?"

As if he doesn't know.

"Yeah. Office was a little stuffy." _Let me have this. Please._

"Huh." He's not gonna let him have this, he'll just wait until the worst possible time, when there's no escape.

Lie detector friends suck.

"You okay?"

"A little tired, Foggy. That's all."

"How's your head?"

"It's fine."

Yeah, right. Matt's the worst liar on the planet. Life's funny that way. All the same, Foggy lets it go-it's one thing to spot a lie, it's another thing altogether to get him to admit it-and goes to blow the candle out.

He was right, about Matt waiting for the worst possible time: Karen nips out for bagels (goodbye, backup) and Foggy finds himself cornered at his desk.

"What did she want."

"Huh?"

"Foggy-"

"I know she was here, what did she want."

"You threatened one of her guys and she didn't like it."

"You're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. We talked and she left and that was it." Matt does not look happy and Foggy suddenly panics that he might try to pick a fight with the damn mob. "Don't be stupid, we're fine, you still need her not to shoot you. Whisper, remember? Asshole stealing children?"

"I can manage-"

"No. It's fine. Nothing happened. Don't be stupid."

"I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it, you just have to not get her to actively try to kill you."

Matt scowls and Foggy gets up and hugs him.

"Why are you squeezing me with your body."

"It's a hug, Matt. I'm hugging you." He pats what is hopefully a non-bruised area on his shoulder. "Kick Whisper's ass first, then you may have my blessing to bring her down. But not now. Okay?"

"But she-"

"We're fine. She didn't even visit Karen. Just me. I think she likes me."

"If you see her again-"

"I'll call you, I swear. But it was fine this time, so calm down."

"Fine."

Foggy doesn't believe that for one second.


	14. Chapter 13

We're goin' on break, ladies and gents, for October! It's Scarecrow's time to shine, with an urban legend-themed collection titled 'Don't Turn on the Light'. See you in a month!

Tousled123-Thanks!

* * *

Angelique is just stubbing out her cigarette when she's hauled off her chaise and manhandled to the window. For a second she's very confused and then it hits her that Daredevil must be throwing a hissy fit.

"You know, I like it rough, but I like a little warning first."

"Shut up."

How dare he take that tone with her? Fucking peasant.

"Well. I can see how _you_ were raised."

"You don't touch them."

"I didn't. I paid them a visit." Brr, that glass is _cold_! "Get your facts straight." She risks trying to losen his fingers-this is a _silk_ robe, thank you very much!

"You don't go near them." he growls. "You leave them out of this."

"Oh, the money I could make selling this information." He shoves her against the window, which threatens to fly open. "Relax, darling, we're evened out. You leave my boys alone, I leave your friends alone."

He may not like it, but he does release her. Damn right.

She shoves him aside and straightens her robe before stalking over to her bar. She considers not offering him a drink, but Nana's voice keeps echoing in her head, saying, _Don't be petty, child._

Damn. _Fine._

"Drink?"

"No."

There. She asked.

"Unless you wanted something else, you should go."

Mask or not, she knows he's shooting her a dirty look. Fine. He can be rude, see how far that gets him in life. Nana Marie would have him by the ear-or at least one of those silly horns-in a second.

She should beg Nana to come up here. That would take care of this problem.

"Well? Why are you still heah?*"

"What came of your guard?"

"I'm dealing with that, thank you." Nothing. Nothing came of it. No amount of money or threats could get anything, and she does not appreciate his rubbing it in. "But your concern is touchin'. Really."

He grips her wrists hard enough to bruise and hisses, "You leave. Them. Alone."

"Sure thing, darlin'." she says, smile a mile wide. Then she leans up and kisses him-hey, he shouldn't go grabbing uninvited.

God damn, he's not bad, even considering she's caught him off-guard. She should just keep him. But the beard's gotta go.

"Hon, you're gonna give someone beard burn." she murmurs against his lips. "Nobody likes that."

He steps back in a hurry and vacates the room via the window without another word. Hmm.

She massages her wrists-ow, he's got a grip on him, the bastard-and is just reaching for another cig when the phone rings. What _now?_

"Who is it at this time of-Oswald!" Finally, the little creep gets back to her. "How _are_ you, darlin'?"

She has to lay on the Southern Charm with this one, and even that doesn't really _work_. It does, however, get him to get straight to the point. She thinks he dislikes it. If it'll get him to not blabber, that's fine.

"Mm-hm...ah see. Well, tell ya what-you make all of this run nice and smooth, and next time you need anything, and ah do mean _anything_ , you come straight to me. Deal...deal. G'night, darlin'."

There. Now that's all taken care of for now, and she can turn her attention to more important things.

Namely, making arrangements should something to happen to her. She'll feel awful if she up and dies without leaving a little something for Daredevil's lawyer friends, after all.

* * *

*Not a typo. Angelique was raised a little ways outside of New Orleans, and though years in Hell's Kitchen has tempered the accent, it's still there if she's tired or stressed.


End file.
